Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery

by Micki Browning

  "Oscar." The word escaped Mer's mouth as a moan.

  She sat on the transom and swung her legs around, unbuckling her BC as she went. Shrugging the vest off one shoulder, she swung the tank to the side and dropped it on the deck. She fell to her knees next to the unconscious man.

  His T-shirt had been cut away, but blood stained the white cloth. Gina pressed a bandage against his upper chest just below the shoulder joint. An oxygen mask covered his face, but his breath barely fogged the inside, and underneath it his skin was ashen.

  "How bad?" she croaked.

  Gina avoided her eyes. "Gunshot wound. No exit wound. Gloves are in there." The deputy chucked her chin toward the open first-aid kit. "I need you to watch him for a minute. Okay?"

  Mer nodded. "Whatever you need." The latex gloves tugged at her wet skin. She rolled her hand onto the bandage as Gina rolled her hand off. Mer had seen her fair share of trauma—living on a research vessel, everything short of surgery was taken care of on board. But gunshot wounds were given short shrift in training. Call for help, stop the bleeding, and treat for shock. In that order.

  "We need to get him to a hospital," Mer said.

  Gina stood. "Helicopter's en route." She turned toward Talbot. "Let's get Kingston onto the other boat before the bird gets here."

  Mer leaned over and grabbed another bandage and applied it on top of the saturated one under her hand. At least it wasn't a sucking chest wound, but it still precluded raising his legs to treat for shock. She drew the first aid-kit closer and rifled through the contents. Her hand settled on a space blanket and she tore the package open with her teeth.

  Talbot dragged Bart to his feet. "Don't do anything stupid. That man dies and you're on the hook for murder."

  Bart stepped onto the gunnel of the salvage boat. "I didn't shoot him."

  Talbot handed Bart off to Gina, who latched onto his arm and drew him into the patrol boat. "Might as well have," she snapped.

  Mer attended Oscar. Her gloved hands shook as she laid two fingers against his neck and felt for his pulse.

  Skipper shuttled back and forth between the deck and V-berth, stowing fenders, lines—anything that could become a projectile—and lashing everything else in place.

  "It's going to feel like a hurricane when the helicopter comes in." He collected the first-aid kit, and drew the space blanket off Oscar. "Don't need anything fouling their engines." He stowed everything in the V-berth and secured the hatch.

  The rhythmic thump of helicopter blades made Mer search the sky. There.

  The pilot hailed Talbot on the radio to coordinate the approach.

  The detective hung up the mic. "It's about to get really loud." Talbot drew Skipper aside. "Gina's not a captain."

  "Looks like you better get on your own boat then, leave me to mine."

  "The Stokes litter—"

  "Boy, I got this." Skipper unwound one of the two lines tethering the boats together and held on until Talbot unlashed the other and jumped into the patrol boat.

  The helicopter approached from the stern and angled to give the pilot the best view of the deck. The rotor wash whipped Mer's hair and she threw herself prostrate across Oscar's body to protect him. The noise and swirl of energy felt like being trapped under the blowers all over again.

  The pilot backed off a bit and then hovered about fifteen feet over the water. A crewman wearing a helmet, harness, and flotation device jumped from the copter into the water and swam to the boat. Aboard, he approached Mer.

  "Gunshot wound, shallow respiration, thready pulse," she shouted.

  He asked a few more questions and signaled the crew chief. The helicopter altered its position, hovered over their port side, and lowered a sled-like object identical to the rescue litter they'd used on the research vessel.

  The medic leaned close to her ear and yelled. "They're going to dip the Stokes litter and then touch it to the side of the boat. Do not touch the litter before it's grounded, or we'll be taking two people to the hospital. Understood?"

  She nodded.

  "Okay. I'm going to leave you for just a moment."

  The litter bumped against the hull. The medic reached over and guided it onto the deck and disconnected it from the hoist hook.

  "Captain!" the medic shouted. "I need your help."

  Skipper stepped forward.

  "We'll treat him in the air, but I need your help getting him secured on the litter."

  He positioned the Stokes litter next to Oscar then motioned for Mer. "The Cap'n and I will lift him. I need you to push the litter so the backboard is underneath him." He positioned himself at Oscar's head and directed Skipper to the feet. Together, they lifted the injured man far enough for Mer to maneuver the Stokes litter into position. The medic secured several straps across Oscar's body, and signaled the crew.

  A moment later the litter was hooked. The winch took up the slack and the medic guided it off the deck. The litter spun like a leaf dangling from a web until it disappeared into the dark maw of the bay door. Once they had Oscar safely aboard, the line dropped again to pick up the crewman.

  The helicopter began moving before the medic was completely inside. He scrambled in, the bay door closed, and the timbre of the rotors changed as the helicopter gained speed. Mer's ears rang with the whomp whomp whomp as the copter disappeared into the sun.

  "They're going to want us to follow them in." Skipper glanced over his shoulder at the patrol boat. "I'm guessing they'll need statements, and some fool will want to take a look at the boat. Even though their evidence just got blown halfway to the Bahamas."

  "I suppose they will." For the first time, she noticed his swollen cheek. "Are you okay?"

  He simply grunted.

  She peeled off her bloody latex gloves and stared at the horizon, trying to regroup. The patrol boat bobbed in the chop. Talbot had his man. Oscar was no longer in the clutches of smugglers. Yet this wasn't how it was supposed to play out.

  She closed her eyes, but instead of darkness she saw Oscar's pale face. This whole fiasco had started and ended with a single coin and a man's quest to make his father proud.

  But she'd undertaken her own quest. She'd sought to identify the person who had destroyed her home, and along with it, her chance to create a normal life.

  Or so she'd told herself. What she'd really wanted was to identify someone to blame for her failure to make a home in Key Largo.

  And that honor belonged to her.

  42

  It was after seven o'clock when Mer arrived home, barely able to breathe through the tightness of her chest. Night noise chattered around her, but it only served to make her feel more alone.

  Oscar had protected Mer from Bart's knife, only to be shot by Chase.

  Ironically, if it hadn't been for Bart turning on the blowers, the patrol boat would have roared right past the Finders Keepers and chased the Picuda, but Talbot had spotted the frothing water and knew something was wrong. Confronted by two deputies with guns, Bart had surrendered.

  Once they'd returned to shore, Gina had taken Mer's statement and insisted medics check her for injuries. Meanwhile, Talbot had transported Bart to the Sheriff's Office to be interviewed and booked. The crime scene investigator had taken several hours to process the boat. By the time Skipper and Mer returned to the dock, the shop had closed, but Bijoux remained to greet them. She'd wanted to know the details of the day.

  The Picuda had vanished. Winslet Chase was in the wind.

  The light outside Mer's door had burned out, casting the area in shadows. A palm frond scratched across the driveway and jangled her already frayed nerves. Key in hand, she approached the door. The handle and deadbolt still glimmered with newness.

  A small box wrapped with an ornate metallic bow leaned against the threshold.

  A whimper rose to her lips and quickly morphed into a growl. She spun around, trying to pierce the silvered moonscape and ferret out an enemy that came and went as silently as smoke.

  She raced to
the end of the driveway. Puddles of light from the street lamps illuminated an empty road. On the other side, the boats in the canal creaked and strained against their lines. Water slapped hulls. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Except the package at her door.

  Winslet Chase.

  She stepped behind her car and studied the box. Unlike the carton the statue had arrived in, this was small: about eight inches long, five inches wide, and two inches thick. The container didn't appear to have any embellishments other than the bow, a wide silver ribbon that shimmered like broken glass in the moon shadows. She should call Talbot. So said her rational mind. But it was her limbic brain in control at the moment. And it was pissed.

  She marched to the door and kicked the package aside. It slid onto its back with a slap.

  And then it began to ring.

  * * *

  The phone rang thirteen times, before Mer's pulse settled into a rhythm that wasn't life threatening—a definite improvement over explosive, but her heart still beat at twice its normal rate.

  She stared at the package. The contents seemed self-evident. The ringtone had been programmed to mimic an old-fashioned ringer, the kind her folks used to have hanging on the kitchen wall.

  Winslet Chase wanted to talk.

  Well, she wasn't ready yet.

  The phone fell silent.

  Rational thought returned in snippets, but the idea pushing all others aside was the need to notify Detective Talbot. With a sigh, she grabbed her own phone from her backpack and dialed his number. The call went to voicemail. She tried Deputy Mercurio. Same thing. Not surprising—today's events must have required a fair amount of paperwork. She tapped the phone against her chin and then dialed the non-emergency line of the Sheriff's Office.

  The dispatcher answered in a rush, confirmed Mer didn't have an emergency, and put her on hold. A Caribbean steel band rendition of "Let it Snow" played in her ear.

  Finally the dispatcher returned. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm trying to get in touch with Detective Talbot."

  "Let me transfer you to his voicemail."

  "No, wait," Mer said. "I've already left him a message. I need to file a report."

  "What's the problem?"

  "Someone left a strange package on my doorstep."

  "Did you recently order anything?" She sounded harried.

  "No."

  "Are there any markings on it? Shipping labels?"

  "No markings. Just a bow."

  "A bow. You mean, like a gift?"

  "Exactly," Mer said.

  "You want to have a deputy to respond because you got a gift?"

  Put like that Mer could understand the dispatcher's skepticism.

  "I've had a spate of trouble lately." Which was an understatement, but she desperately wanted to avoid recounting the entire affair to the dispatcher. "Look. Detective Talbot knows all about it. He wanted me to report anything unusual."

  That seemed to get through to the woman. "We've got a major incident unfolding. It might be several hours before a deputy can respond."

  "Fine." Mer gave her the address and hung up.

  Now what? Sleep was definitely out of the question. There was no way she'd be able to relax, knowing the box was outside her front door. She glanced up at Selkie's. Dark. Not that asking him for help was an option anymore.

  That left opening the damn box.

  She rummaged through the back of the Subaru for her first-aid kit. For the second time that day, she donned surgical gloves.

  The reason eluded her, but she didn't want to take the package inside her home. Instead, she pushed aside the medical kit and a blanket to create space in the hatchback. Carefully, she set the package inside the car. It hardly weighed anything. The dim interior light danced on the ribbon as she slid it off the box.

  She paused. Talbot would probably give her holy hell tomorrow. But her curiosity won out. He'd get over it.

  Or not.

  Without the ribbon, nothing remained to secure the box. All she had to do was lift the lid. Her hands hovered over the edges. Small as it was, all manner of unsavory items could be inside with the phone.

  Schrödinger's cat.

  She shook her head. There was no cat—dead or alive. There never was. It was only a thought experiment to explain quantum superposition. This was a box. Containing a phone.

  Steeling herself, she lifted the lid.

  A phone.

  It seemed anticlimactic. After all, she'd heard it ring.

  Nestled in a swath of fabric, the small flip phone reminded her of a model she used to own. This one was dark gray and had a message screen. The screen blinked.

  She had a text message.

  43

  The message icon pulsed bright red. Mer stared at it.

  Finally, she opened the phone. The text originated from a blocked telephone number and consisted of a short message and a string of numbers.

  Call me, Winslet.

  It wasn't as catchy as "Call me Ishmael," but then again, Winslet didn't require two hundred thousand words to get his point across—he wasn't through with her.

  She stared at the numbers as if they held the key to his whereabouts. The 305 area code serviced an area that stretched from Key West to Miami. Considering he'd left the damn thing on her doorstep, there was a good chance he was within those boundaries as well. But why call from a blocked number when he gave her his number in the text?

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She dialed the number. Almost immediately, she regretted it and hung up, but not before the line rang once. Talbot would have a conniption. It was bad enough she'd opened the box; placing the call would probably push him over the edge.

  Still.... Today hadn't played out as she'd planned. Oscar had been shot. Skipper punched. This was an opportunity for Mer to finish things without jeopardizing anyone else.

  One problem. She was vastly outgunned.

  No doubt about it, she should have left the box unopened. Her Pandora-level curiosity had served her well in science, but this wasn't an experiment. Mer collected the ribbon, cardboard, and phone. She carried them into the house and locked the door behind her.

  It was too late for coffee, so she set down the phone and filled the kettle for tea. She needed sleep, but she was too amped up and at some point a deputy would arrive. Maybe the chamomile would soothe her frazzled nerves.

  She dropped into a wicker chair and waited for the water to boil. To the casual observer, her home showed no signs of being violated. But the gouged desk, the torn curtain, and the bent hinge on the cabinet door—the scars were there, if one looked closely.

  The kettle whistled and she startled, catching herself rubbing her thigh.

  Enough of the maudlin thoughts. Returning to the kitchen, she dropped the last tea sachet into her Gryffindor mug. The boiling water hissed out of the spout and splattered as she poured. Inhaling the tea's delicate scent, she waited for it to work its magic and override the crush of emotions.

  Of course, it might help if she actually believed in magic before she tried to summon it.

  The wind strengthened and even inside, she heard it tear through the palms.

  Air currents in Key Largo were a far different phenomenon than the wind she'd grown up with in Santa Barbara. There, the Santa Anas blew for days through the canyons in maniacal gusts of heat that made everything brittle and dry—chaparral, skin, and nerves, alike. The Santa Anas howled with heat, inflaming passions until they combusted. Here, the wind felt heavy, saturated with warmth. It knocked into things with a physical force, battering houses, whipping palms, filling sails, and raising waves.

  Despite its destructive power, Mer had an affinity for wind. She admired its power and enjoyed when it tugged on her hair. The wind buoyed her spirits aloft, even as it reminded her of her marvelous insignificance.

  She removed the tea bag. The first sip burned her mouth. The gift phone rang again and she jerked so violently, she splashed hot tea on her hand. Should
she answer it and play by his rules, or annoy him by ignoring the call?

  She opted for the latter. Her mother would call her petty. She preferred to consider it a dignified silence. Plus, there was a good chance that if the deputy didn't get there soon, she'd cave in and call, just to appease her curiosity.

  To distract herself, she opened the browser on her own phone and searched for the local news channel. The dispatcher had mentioned a major incident. Maybe that would give her an idea if she should wait for the deputy or go to bed.

  A red "Breaking News" banner scrolled across the top of the Keys News website. Mer clicked the video link and turned up the volume. Wendy Wheeler. Great.

  "The Monroe County Sheriff's Office tactical team have surrounded the home of famed treasure hunter Winslet Chase after a boat involved in an at-sea shooting was discovered docked at his northern Key Largo property."

  Thank goodness Mer had put down the tea.

  She backed the video up and started it again. The wind whipped Wendy's perfect bob into a not-so-perfect snarl, and she had to hold her notepad up to protect the microphone.

  "Law enforcement has the area cordoned off, but we're here in a neighbor's backyard to bring you exclusive footage of the standoff that began early this evening." The camera panned away from Wendy and focused on the Picuda in the canal behind the sprawling home. Off screen, she continued speaking. "If you're just tuning in with us, we're on the scene of a SWAT standoff with famed treasure hunter Winslet Chase. Few official details regarding the incident are known at this time. We spoke via telephone to a member of the Sheriff's Office who declined to give his name because he's not authorized to speak on behalf of the department. Unofficially, the deputy said Winslet Chase is wanted in connection with the shooting of a rival treasure hunter in the marine sanctuary. No word on that man's condition."

  Contradictory emotions flooded her body—anger over the senseless shooting of Oscar and triumph that Winslet had nowhere to run and would soon be in custody.